The Artist's Pencil
by Suna Kokaru
Summary: Self discovery is odd when you share it, especially when d.gray man resembles it almost perfectly. A tied story of shorts with Kanda x Tyki, Kanda x Tiedoll not as couple but normal lol and some Allen. A collection of little dares and don'ts for life.


Disclaimer: i do not own, -man or any of the characters used in the story below.

on that note, please keep in mind that ill be piecing together several stories as i write them, this is probably going to end up as Tyki x kanda (TyKan) Tiedoll and Kanda, A little of allens history and a piece of my own. its from my point of view as i discover the characters, their interactions with one another and creating a story using them.

Tyki's black and white side will be influenced probably in the next chapter

Kanda and Tyki would be chapter 2

Tiedoll and Kanda's funny interactions as 'father' and 'son' as much as kanda hates it, would be chapter 3 and so on. each will have a story of my own and then a story based on that with -man. reviews are greatly appreciated but please be respectful. Arigato. Enjoy.

"Fate worked in strange ways. (or the Author does)"

I could sketch it all I wanted and it would still look exactly as I watched to sketch it, the sketch would be neat, tidy, complicated and filled with emotion.

Exactly the way I didn't want to portray it.

Sure it might not make sense to you, but to me, it was the only thing I was aiming for. It was the utter perfection and skill that I've longed to achieve, and when I did, I was regretting it, because often it led me to stop breathing, lose a sense of togetherness and hearing and turn a bright shade of red that only a pure red acrylic paint could portray.

It bothered me.

It was great but that's what they would always say, it was great, it looked pretty, it was perfect but not to my eyes. Even still I can see the imperfect lines and frustration of not conveying my thoughts accordingly. I wanted to do it darker, a little more shading with an undertone of fear. Not exactly perfectly drawn but of course it was to them, the viewers, of course.

Problematic as always I cursed myself, it was never good enough for me. I would often sit there in my desk staring at the project half expecting it to move or to bitch slap me into reality. I was sure it did once…it was rather difficult to explain.

That was beside the point though, I was an artist with not that much training and only been told I was good at everything I did, it should have been expected for me to be self-conscious really. I mean it feels like their practically practicing their lines on what to say next, but it was too far to go and say I was paranoid, as I don't really believe it to such an extent.

It was mainly for writing purposes, I concluded, after all, I wouldn't turn as bashfully red as a tomato if I knew they were fake. I was in such a strange dilemma, trying to convey the insecurities and the perfection I wanted to be rid and achieve; an odd combination but both necessary. I was in an odd dilemma indeed.

Even as I sit here to write my misguidance and difficulties related to art, none of you know who I am so it might be difficult to put it into context a little.

Or maybe not.

I cursed myself again for typing something most people would probably read the first line and look away, but after _that_, I had decided to write the forbidden tales today, so today ended up to be the day I would write the story I have avoided for almost _eight_ years.

I still couldn't paint the picture of memories. I couldn't form the warm and cool colours to illustrate the sense of belonging and brightness. I could draw a woman scared easily, it was simple. Narrow the pupil, have her head titled upwards, hair flowing in the wind to enhance that chaotic feeling using as less shading as possible. The eyes would be narrowed and the brows wrinkled together. Her lips would be caught in a whimper.

It was the face I saw in my nightmares most of the times, often staring into the same person.

But, along with that fear and anxiety and that ability to draw comes with the understanding and hopes of a brighter colour; Ones of yellows, blues and orange and maybe a little of red to show passion. Those wrinkled brows would lift, space out a little and bring the lower eyelid a little higher allowing the sun to accent the light that shone in the person's eyes. The lips would twitch into a smile. Their face flushed and titled ever so slightly, almost laughing. They would be by themselves to show a strength and purity but also to question if the person smiled at the viewer as a thank you or hello _or _if the person smiled at the thought of something else.

Something that happened recently, something that happened in the past.

Something that could have been better if another were there.

I stared down at the laptop. It was getting duty. I would have to use it more often. Black really was a terrible colour.

It was not a colour but a shade. It _is_ the absence of colour. That is, the colour of my past. But. It shall not be the colour of my future.

Suddenly I feel like a fictional character.

I wonder what it means to be one?


End file.
